


In the Words of a Warrior's Will

by thegrumblingirl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, also I should probably mention how much non-canon-compliant this is, also though I firmly believe that Peter is playing the long con on the show, he's just an excited puppy in my headcanons so, implied Derek/Stiles jsyk it's more in the background, mentions of violence but nothing too graphic, of course I write fic for the two characters who haven't interacted at all in the recent season, smatterings of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1459672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl/pseuds/thegrumblingirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the life of an Argent, everything happened with a purpose. Our men are trained to be soldiers. Our women, to be leaders. They lived with the code, for the code — and code, on so many days, was just another word for protocol. Protocol, propriety, honour, the right way of doing things. An Argent marched to the tune of the code, under the leadership of the women he loved and admired.</p><p>(I keep forgetting to add a summary <em>before</em> I post...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Words of a Warrior's Will

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on Gordon Lightfoot's song _Protocol_ , which just gives me all the Chris Argent & the code feels. Listen to it on youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jut8wYL9NVk  
> Dedicated to Inkie, whose critical eye and squealing helped me navigate this mess of ideas and words.

In the life of an Argent, everything happened with a purpose. _Our men are trained to be soldiers. Our women, to be leaders_. They lived with the code, for the code — and code, on so many days, was just another word for protocol. Protocol, propriety, honour, _the right way of doing things_. An Argent marched to the tune of the code, under the leadership of the women he loved and admired.

Christopher Argent was no different — and yet, everything had changed in the space of only a few months. His father was closer to death than life, now, and more of a monster than he’d ever been. His sister had somehow managed to come out on the other end of that particular scale, though no less thirsty for Hale blood. His wife, his companion of many years, was dead, and for good. On her terms, as she’d lived her life, and Chris still didn’t dare imagine what she would have done if he’d suggested living, no matter… no matter what the full moon would have done to her.

The woman he followed was his daughter, now. Allison Argent, the one who’d single-handedly rewritten the code, who had nearly been broken by her own grandfather, only to raise herself from the tatters of her life, rise above and take the step he couldn’t, not after decades of fear.

That’s what it was, so often, that kept them going. Fear. Fear of Gerard, fear of what would happen if they stopped to think and see what they were doing — to others, to themselves, to their own children. To innocents. After the final run-in with the Nogitsune and the Oni, after the debacle that had nearly cost Chris his last anchor, Allison had confided in him about the tears she’d shed in front of a bewildered Sheriff Stilinski, about the terror she had not before dared to give voice to in their own home, for fear of it swallowing them whole.

Chris had clung to her, willing his own tears not to fall and failing. For so long, the name Argent had stood for the fight against the hellmouth, for guns blazing and self-sacrifice, for the sure knowledge of what was good and what was evil. For so long, there had been glory in the love of battle, from one-shot pistols and bows and arrows to Glocks, crossbows made of steel, and silver arrowheads. Chris had probably been proud of that, once upon a time, when he wasn’t frightened for his life at his first arms deal, when he wasn’t threatening to beat up a 16-year-old kid whose only crime was being in love with his daughter on top of having a really sharp set of fangs and matching claws, listening to his only child plead with him just so he’d let him live. _Live_. He’d watched Victoria try and mould Allison into the shape she wanted, watched her push their daughter away and to the brink. He’d cried for his wife, even knowing that the bite on her shoulder had been self-defence, that Derek had only been trying to save Scott, a boy, a _pup_. As Chris held Allison in his arms, whispering into her hair that it was okay to be afraid, he knew that the only way their family would ever regain their right to pride in who they were was if they did this right.

_Who are these ones who would lead us now_   
_To the sound of a thousand guns_   
_Storm the gates of hell itself_   
_To the tune of a single drum_

And so, the Argents became part of a pack — led by Scott McCall, the Hale-McCall pack was taking its first steps towards something akin to stability, the first real hope for the wolves of Beacon Hills ever since the fire. Despite her words as she’d lain in Scott’s arms, bleeding close to death before Stiles’s magic could swoop in to save her, somehow, reveal that everything they’d seen had been an illusion conjured up by the Nogitsune, a game to break them and make them vulnerable, Allison and the new Alpha in town had agreed to take their time, to heal and gather themselves before discussing their relationship. It wasn’t just them now, they had a pack to consider — and, closer to the heart, Kira and Isaac. And yet, it was undeniable that Allison held an important position in their ranks: the huntress, the one to rewrite the code, to unite two warring factions through sheer force of will and her love for those her family had been meant to hunt. It had taken weeks until, after the fight at Oak Creek, Allison and Chris had talked enough about what they needed, about what was right, and about what they could take responsibility for, they reached out to Scott and the rest of the pack. Not with a truce, not with an alliance, not with a treaty. But with the honest wish to join.

Chris had never thought it possible, would have laughed at anyone who’d told him a year ago that he’d one day want to join a pack of wolves, a kitsune, humans, and a banshee. But there he was, and he wanted it — not just because Allison wanted it, his leader, but because he had felt it when he’d taken up the crossbow alongside her to defend the twins and Derek from the Oni. It had felt right, to be fighting with them — not on anyone’s _side_ , not the side of the hunter or the hunted. But on the side of those who protected those who could not protect themselves, on the side of those who found another way. The side of those who understood that good or evil was neither, that nothing was set in stone, that all creatures were worth protecting. For centuries, the Argent family’s fight had been so focused on who their enemies were, on who they were fighting against — completely losing track of what it had been they should be fighting _for_. So busy to destroy what they hated, so eager to establish themselves as the superior, the human, that they lost sight of themselves.

On a sunny day in June, Chris and Allison stepped out into the clearing in front of the old Hale house, which was being rebuilt brick by brick and beam by wooden beam, to be met with the pack they were asking to be their family. Scott, with his second, Derek, with Peter acting as the pack elder, with Stiles at his right as the pack’s soon-to-be emissary, with Isaac, Kira, Ethan, and Lydia fanned out beside them.

Chris had read enough werewolf lore to know that acceptance into a pack didn’t happen by signing your name in blood — it happened, and you felt it as you did it. So when Scott came forward towards them, his hands outstretched towards Allison, and hugged her, he knew she felt it, saw it in the way she relaxed in his embrace, gripped his shoulders and softly sobbed. Chris knew it wasn’t the touch that did it, knew it wouldn’t work the same for him, so he turned his eyes away from his daughter and the Alpha, and looked to the others. Most were watching Allison and Scott, Isaac was watching the tips of his boots, and Derek was watching the treeline, as if just waiting for something to crash through the branches to disturb them. But then, Chris’s eyes locked onto bright blue ones watching _him_. Peter Hale, of all people, was staring at him with half a smile on his face and his eyebrows slightly raised, as if asking him what he was waiting for. Chris just stared back, letting his own breathing even out, letting himself relax into the invitation he saw (wanted to see?) in that gaze. Peter’s smile grew and, after a few more moments, he stepped down from the porch, sauntering towards Chris. He’d come about halfway when Chris felt something in the air shift as he saw Peter draw breath to speak, and then the words reached his ears.

“Welcome to the pack, Chris.”

The pack bond all but slammed into his chest with the might of a freight train, and yet Chris didn’t feel suffocated. He grounded himself to the sensation, let it wash over him. The pack’s mentality, its moods, its needs settled in around him, became a part of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw several pairs of eyes jerk towards him, as though the addition of Allison to their midst had been par for the course but his still seemed to be a bit of a surprise. Where Allison brought determination, compassion, and strength, he suspected his very own brand of emotional feedback was, even now, grief and guilt and a nagging urge to belong. Instinctively, they reached out to him, and he more felt than saw the pack move as one, drawing closer, forming a circle around Scott and Allison and Chris and Peter, who’d reached him by now, standing close as if to keep an eye on him.

“Doing ok?” he asked softly.

Chris nodded. Incongruously, he found himself trying to communicate gratitude, like a promise to do better.

“It’s alright,” Peter counseled, as if knowing what he was trying to do. Seeing the wolves around him relax, perhaps they could, perhaps this was working. “The pack will help you heal. You’ve accepted the bond, we have accepted you.”

Chris cleared his throat. “I’m just sorry it took so much death and pain for this to happen, for… us to realise.”

The smile on Peter’s face dimmed with an undercurrent of sadness. “We both know it wouldn’t have. Otherwise. But we’re here now.”

Again, Chris could only nod. “Yeah,” he murmured. “We are.”

_Where are the girls of the neighborhood bars_  
 _Whose loves were lost at sea_  
 _In the hills of France and on German soil_  
 _From Saigon to Wounded Knee_

In July, Chris helped Peter and Derek with the roof reconstructions. Perhaps it was the manual labour, perhaps it was the sun beating down on him mercilessly from above, perhaps it was the pack’s influence, perhaps it was the act of rebuilding, but Chris could breathe more easily than he had in years. Sometimes, when they took a break, when they leaned their heads back and closed their eyes, he could feel the others downstairs, moving about the house, sanding the floor boards, inspecting the broken banisters for parts that could be salvaged, discussing floor plans. _Their rooms_ , Chris realised. He looked at Derek and Peter, who seemed as relaxed as he was, and yet buzzing with contentment — he was helping build a home. A home, for and with and alongside wolves, a home he would be welcome in, _expected_ in.

The night before, he’d ended up on the sofa at Derek’s loft, the pack’s temporary home, with Allison wedged under his right arm and Isaac and Ethan cuddled up on his other side. Isaac’s head had been pillowed on his shoulder, Ethan’s arm had bracketed Isaac in, hand somehow finding Chris’ elbow. Chris had had no time to think about it before Peter had strolled in from the kitchen, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He’d winked at Chris before coming towards them, and for an irrational moment, Chris had asked himself whether there would be any more room on the couch for such a tall wolf. But instead, Peter had sat down on the rug in front of them, settling into the space between Chris’ left leg and Isaac’s right. His back was warm against Chris’ shin, and another knot in his shoulders released at the contact.

Although he and Allison had agreed to keep the apartment, Chris was well aware that many a night would be spent at the loft and, once it was rebuilt, the old Hale house, as part of the pack. Even now, most of the pack ended up spending the nights together wherever they had a flat surface to drop on — once, they hadn’t made it out of Scott’s house after a study session, and Chris had found himself driving over there after a text from Allison letting him know she’d be staying. He’d gotten into his car before having quite finished deciding upon it, and not because he disapproved or because it was a school night. He just… wanted to be there. When he knocked and Melissa opened the door, she smiled gently and let him in. He found the Sheriff in the kitchen, too.

“Apparently, I’m pack now, too,” was all the other man said as he offered Chris a mug of tea. Melissa leaned against the counter next to them, huffing.

“Of course you are,” she smiled at him.

“Your son’s the emissary,” Chris agreed, then stopped short. He didn’t even have to think about it. The Sheriff must have noticed, since he smiled a self-deprecating smile.

“At least Stiles can’t mock me for hovering now, I almost can’t help it.”

Chris chuckled, but then turned a curious look on John. “So you accepted the pack bond?”

Stilinski nodded. “Yeah, I did. Stiles said it wasn’t right for me to be merely, whatchamacallit, pack-adjacent. And in the end, it was easy. He was right, it’s all about believing.”

Chris hummed. “True.”

Melissa, the first parent to become part of the new pack, added, “Sometimes I still can’t believe that my dorky kid is kinda the unquestioned leader of that bunch of superwolves, foxes, hunters, and banshees. And then, he saves a lot of lives and the next morning he just wants a hug and a bowl of cereal while lugging around three pack members clinging to his ankles.” She shook her head. “It’s a crazy life, but seeing them like this after all that’s happened feels like a huge reward. For all of us.” She smiled and then said, "Oh, hang on," before leaving the kitchen.

They were quiet for a moment, but then a sleepy voice called, “Dad?” from the living room. Both men turned and walked out into the hall, where they met Melissa, who came back down the stairs with a stack of blankets in her arms. Chris and John each took one, proceeding into the living room, locating their assorted children and pack members. It turned out that it had been Stiles who’d called, having woken up with only Derek’s long-suffering shoulder for a pillow and research materials all over his lap. At their entrance, a few wolf ears twitched and some humans blinked, including Allison.

“Dad? Is something wrong?”

“Shh, no, it’s all good,” Chris murmured, brushing his knuckles against her cheek.

“Mr Argent?” Scott asked from Allison’s one side while Kira peered at him from the other.

“It’s Chris, Scott,” he reminded the Alpha quietly. “And it’s fine. I just wanted to be here with you lot.”

Allison smiled up at him softly, so he bent down and pressed a kiss to her forehead before draping the blanket over them.

“Where did you leave Isaac?”

“He’s with Deaton and Lydia,” Scott supplied, and Chris could sense the relief and warmth radiating from him when Chris tucked the blanket in on his side as well. “They should be here soon, though.”

“Good.” Chris straightened up and turned to see that John had successfully administered a blanket to Stiles, Derek, and Ethan where they were nestled in on the floor, while Melissa had made up the two armchairs with blankets and pillows for him and the Sheriff.

“I’m heading up. When Isaac and Lydia get in, make sure they don’t trip over anyone,” she instructed them, brushed a hand down each of their shoulders, pinched Scott’s cheek, and then headed upstairs to bed with a wave. Stilinski had just sat down in the chair when a knock sounded on the door. Chris headed out into the den, wondering if Isaac had lost his key if he had to knock. When he opened the door, however, he found Peter on the step.

The pack elder smiled. “Got some more room for Uncle Peter?”

Chris bit back a laugh, then stepped aside to let the werewolf in. “I’m sure we’ll find a spot of blanket for you somewhere.” Peter’s answering smile was serenely amused, and Chris declined to think about what it meant that he was so comfortable around the other man ever since they had become part of the same pack. After six years of believing him dead, after another year swaying between wanting to kill him on sight and feeling immeasurable guilt at what his sister had done, even after having said sister seen killed at the former Alpha’s hands… their history was everything but simple. And yet, they were pack. It hadn’t magically erased the tension that still sprang up between them, but it had gone a long way to help Chris not get overwhelmed with guilt every time he thought too long about who, exactly, he had elected to share this connection with.

The new code.

There was a protocol to being pack, too — there were traditions, and unspoken rules, and every single wolf and human’s way of coping with what they had been through. There were politics, there were duties each pack member had to fulfill, emotional as well as practical. As Allison’s father, as a hunter, it was his job to protect the pack, to train them alongside Peter and Derek, at least while Allison herself was still in training. It was his job to make sure they’re ready when they go on a hunt, it was his job to make sure they were safe, a responsibility shared by all the parents. Just like now.

Peter followed him into the living room, looking around with bright eyes, his head raised a little to scent the air. He gave a short, content hum. He smiled down at the Sheriff, who gave a small wave, then turned towards Chris, stepping close. “Where’s Lydia and Isaac?” he whispered, so close Chris could feel his breath on his neck, a feeling that should distinctly terrify him and instead just tickled.

“They’re at Deaton’s, but they’ll be along soon,” Chris pitched his voice low, his body swaying forward into the warmth exuded by the wolf. Again, he declined to question.

Peter nodded, and then looked around once again. “Spot of blanket is right, there’s not much left, is there?” He seemed amused instead of put out, though, so Chris just shrugged. “You can have the armchair, if you—”

“No, no,” Peter interrupted. He swivelled on his heels towards the sideboard, where Melissa had left two more blankets for the stragglers. He grabbed one, all the while waving Chris towards the chair. “You take that, I’ll be just fine.”

Chris became vaguely aware of the Sheriff watching them from the side, undoubtedly entertained by their awkward little dance. “Ok...” He settled into the chair, toeing off his shoes. Peter took off his own shoes and socks as well and then shook out the blanket. “Where are you..?” Chris’ question was answered when Peter sat on the floor slightly to his left, close enough to lean back against the armchair. When he stretched his legs, his feet just about nudged Derek’s knee, who shifted in his sleep, making a soft sound. Peter leaned his head back until it was pillowed against the armrest, his combed-back hair brushing Chris’ wrist.

“Alright?” Peter asked softly, as if perfectly prepared to move away. Chris didn’t see any reason for him to.

“Yeah. You comfy? Need a cushion?”

“Nope. Got all I need.”

_Who come from long lines of soldiers_  
 _Whose duty was fulfilled_  
 _In the words of a warrior's will_  
 _ And protocol _

In the following months — rebuilding the house, slowly replacing the wood and brick blackened by flames and eaten up by mould, slowly starting to talk about interiors and wall colours and rugs — Chris spent a lot of time thinking about fighting and what fighting really meant. More than once he had to pull himself from the happy atmosphere surrounding the pack whenever they worked on the house together, stepping a little ways into the woods to clear his head, not wanting them to have to listen to the darkness inside him. He knew that that wasn’t entirely fair — they were his pack, they _knew_ , and had a right to know. It was difficult for him to reconcile the idea of so many people around him being so sensitive to his moods a lot of the time. He used to be a very private person, still was, and yet he was coming to terms with the pack having a right to know what was going on with him, if only because everyone’s feelings inevitably fed back into the bond, and he didn’t want to make them miserable. Derek had explained to him that privacy could be a tricky thing to negotiate, especially in packs like theirs that were new and not that big and where everyone still had to figure out where they fit in. So Chris often found himself torn between wanting to be alone with his thoughts and wanting to share, because he instinctively knew that having the pack’s support would help, and because he knew their distress would mount at finding him pulling away. For the moment, though, he wasn’t sure whether that kind of attention right now would be helpful or… stifling. He welcomed the emotional connection to the kids, most importantly of course Allison. Their time-out had done well by them, before joining the pack, but they were closer now than ever. In moments like these, he had to step away simply because he didn’t want to poison the laughter with his thoughts of Gerard.

“You shouldn’t be alone out here,” a voice behind him broke the silence around him. Chris turned at the waist to look back at who had joined him, even though he had known that it was Peter because the wolf had let him hear his footfall this time.

“I can take care of myself, Peter,” he replied, raising a brow.

“Not what I meant,” Peter countered, giving him a look that said, 'And you know it.' “Shouldn’t be alone with dark thoughts. Not when you’re pack.”

“Aren’t you the one who told Isaac and Scott to stop bothering you about that nightmare you had? Loudly?”

“Don’t get clever.”

Chris scoffed, but it lacked venom. _And you know it_. “Just because you don’t take your own advice doesn’t mean I shouldn’t?”

“Precisely.” Peter came to stand next to him, hands in the pockets of his jeans. “You’ve been doing better over the past month, so there’s really only one thing that could drive you out here, hiding. Or, rather, one person.”

Chris stared at his feet, content not to look Peter in the eye at all. “Gerard nearly destroyed all what was left of my family, and almost all of yours.”

“It’s our family now.”

“Back then, it wasn’t.”

He heard the wolf sigh. “It’s over, Chris. We talked about this when you first asked to join the pack, we’ve talked about it so often since, if not in as many words — you’re not your father, and you’re not Kate. And, thank God, because I don’t think her clothes would suit you.”

“Peter,” Chris interrupted, a teasing warning.

“Just trying to lighten the mood,” Peter shrugged, his smile telling Chris he knew he’d won. But then, he turned serious. “Being pack isn’t some sort of penance for you, is it?”

“What? No!” Ok, _that_ had come out more vehemently than he’d meant it to, but it was just the truth. If Peter was surprised, he didn’t show it.

“Then stop making amends, Chris. Just live, live with us and by whatever code you need, and let the demons lie where they fell. And now come inside, the pups are getting restless wondering where you are.”

_Where are the boys in their coats of blue_  
 _Who flew when their eyes were blind_  
 _Was God in town for the Roman games_  
 _Was he there when the deals were signed_

That night, he lay awake (in his own bed, this time). Had there been any honour at all, in the old code, hunting what hunted them instead of fostering peace the way Deucalion had tried to? Had their ancestors fancied themselves defenders of the realm, the way Gerard had seemed to?

_Who are the kings in their coats of mail_  
 _Who rode by the cross to die_  
 _Did they all go down into worthiness_  
 _Is it wrong for a king to cry_

Now, there was no “us” and “them” anymore, no pride in killing. Chris had never believed in the glory of wielding a weapon for the sake of wielding it. But he had gone to war blindly following ideals, had even been ready to kill his own sister, his own blood, after learning that she had burnt the Hale family to the ground — not for betrayal, but for breaking the code. How did that make him any better than Gerard, who would have disposed of anyone interfering with his plans?

All Chris knew was that the new code, Allison’s code, would never again be used to justify cruelty or martyrdom. Never again.

_And who are these ones who would have us now_  
 _Whose presence is concealed_  
 _Whose nature is revealed_  
 _In a time bomb_

As soon as the pack was established, they had just about enough time to prepare for Beacon Hills living up to its telling name. The coven of witches coming to town to introduce themselves to the new pack weren’t the problem, much to everyone’s surprise. The rogue hunters drawn to the promise of a good old witch hunt, literally, were a big problem indeed. The pack had offered the coven as much protection as they could, but with the house not yet finished, they had limited resources to keep the whole thing away from the rest of town as much as they wanted to. And then, the hunters had caught wind of the re-established pack of wolves and, needless to say, all hell had broken loose. In the end, Peter as pack elder had to put his foot down.

“That’s it,” he exclaimed one night, when Lydia and Isaac had just stumbled in, Lydia out of breath and fuming, Isaac with an arrowhead still sticking out of his bleeding thigh. Peter glared at Scott, who looked back at him with a resigned frown. “That is it,” Peter repeated, hitching his thumb over his shoulder at Lydia and Isaac, who were now being fussed over by Allison and Stiles. “Curfew, as of now, for everyone who doesn’t possess magic. And Stiles.”

“Hey!” Stiles’s protesting shout came from where he was inspecting the wound in Isaac’s leg. “My magic is awesome!”

“And you haven’t had nearly enough training,” Peter shot back, obvious concern ruining his usual cool demeanour. “None of you have, so I want you either here, at my apartment, or at any of the parents’ places by 9 every night. No excuses.”

A collective groan sounded from the room at large, accompanied by an irritated scoff from Lydia as she sat down on the floor next to Allison.

“Scott’s our Alpha,” Isaac interjected from where he was leaning on the back of the sofa, paying no attention to Stiles removing the arrowhead and applying one of Deaton’s ointments. “We don’t have to listen to you.”

Peter’s eyes glowed blue and Chris could see his fangs elongating from across the room — oh, this would be good. Before the oldest Hale could growl Isaac into submission, however, Scott let his eyes flash red and a deep rumble from his throat stilled everyone in the room. Isaac’s eyes snapped to his pack leader’s, and Scott shook his head at him.

“Peter’s right. I didn’t want to force a curfew on you because I remember vividly how well that turned out the last time the town decreed one, but Peter’s got a point. It’s too dangerous right now. We have to bide our time and drive them out when we have a plan that goes beyond just not getting killed. Also, since Peter is the _pack elder_ ,” Scott stressed the words with just enough bite to rankle Peter’s ego, “you do have to listen to him, Isaac. Occasionally.”

Chris had to suppress a smile as Peter rolled his eyes. Isaac sighed, then yelped as Stiles murmured something that sounded vaguely like a spell. “Ow! Warn me next time, will you?”

“Not a chance, dude, not when you sound like an actual little puppy when something startles you,” Stiles said over his shoulder as he walked towards Derek (who had wisely kept out of the curfew debate the whole time), inspecting the arrowhead as he went. “Seen those before?” he asked in passing. When Derek frowned and shook his head, Stiles continued on to Chris. “Got any idea who those belong to?”

Chris took the arrowhead and turned it over in the lamp light, weighing it carefully in his hand. “Considering that they’re witch hunters first and wolf hunters on the side… there are no clan markings that I can see, but I’d say Croatian or Romanian.”

“Any particular families that you know that have ties to the US?” Peter asked, getting up and walking over to take a look himself. He came to stand next to Chris, peering at the arrowhead. Chris held it out towards him, intending for the wolf to take it. Instead, Peter lightly grasped Chris’ wrist and tugged it towards him, exerting gentle pressure so Chris turned his fingers. The arrowhead reflected the light like jewellery, and Chris focused on admiring the craftsmanship to distract himself from the way he knew his pulse jumped under Peter’s touch. (Sometimes, he wished he possessed Stiles’ utterly unapologetic streak when he and Derek got into each other’s space and every single wolf in the room could tell how much he didn’t really mind, at all.) Peter pronounced his agreement with Chris’ assessment, and belatedly the hunter realised he hadn’t answered his question.

“Uh, no,” he eventually said, and Peter’s eyes locked with his in confusion. “I mean, no, I don’t know any families from that particular area that would have ties to any in the US, but then I haven’t been in Eastern Europe for a while, at least eight years. A lot has happened since then.”

Peter hummed in agreement, a deep, dark sound that did nothing to make this any easier on Chris. He and Allison had joined the pack a little over a year ago, now, and he had been prepared for a pack’s intrinsic intimacy and search of tangible comfort, but Peter’s interpretation of being tactile with the pack’s very own seasoned hunter wasn’t even close to textbook. Chris should tell him off, to keep his paws to himself, to stop standing so close, to stop hovering when they were on a hunt, to stop insisting on coming along when Allison had to take him to their apartment to patch him up after a rough fight. But he didn’t. Not for Allison’s sake, not for his own, not… not even for Victoria, who was most likely spinning in her early grave at the thought of him being part of a wolf pack, welcoming the bond the way he did. He was finally doing the right thing, and the pack gave him a sense of belonging he hadn’t thought possible. He took fewer time-outs to work through his rage at Gerard and Kate these days. The pack had noticed, of course they had, and Peter had wound an arm over his shoulder as he stood on the back porch of one evening and told him, “You don’t smell like guilt and fear anymore,” smiling at him like he was _proud_. And Chris had smiled back, had said nothing, had stayed there with Peter, watching the young betas train with Derek and Scott.

Again, Chris had to shake himself to return to the present. Fortunately, he hadn’t missed anything important. Peter had released his wrist, but still stood close, turned towards the rest of the pack now.

“Alright,” Scott broke the silence. “We need a plan.”

_And last of all you old sea dogs_  
 __Who travel after whale  
You'd storm the gates of hell itself  
 _For the taste of a mermaid's tail_

As it turned out, a bunch of rogue hunters was nothing compared to the almighty force of an actual fucking Chimera. Straight from the pages of their combined family bestiaries and Deaton’s copious notes, the creature rampaged its way down the West coast until it arrived in Beacon Hills, all scale-skinned, mythical, murderous glory. Really, Chris would have been awestruck when he first saw it, if it hadn’t been quite so intent on ripping him and everyone he cared about to shreds at the time. Pure firepower and claws weren’t going to do the trick with this new arrival, so not only had the pack turned out in full force, but they had called in support from the coven (who had since gone back to Boston, but who had proposed a treaty before leaving, and were more than happy to return the favour), Deaton and his sister Marin — and, of course, Stiles as the pack’s emissary had his own magic to throw into the mix. With extensive training, Stiles had come to harness the magic that had flowed through him while he was connected to the Nemeton, adding to his own natural abilities. In the end, it would come down to him, but in the meantime, the rest of the pack had to do what they could to keep him — and themselves — very much alive.

Guns in hand and a crossbow by his side, Chris found himself securing one of the edges of the perimeter they had secured and driven the Chimera into — with none other than Peter for company and back-up. Chris liked to think that he had given up on protesting against Peter’s hovering neither too soon nor too late, but he wasn’t about to draw extra attention to it, either. Sometimes, he wasn’t sure whether the bond had changed his reaction to Peter, or whether Peter had changed his reaction to the bond. It probably didn’t matter either way.

Suddenly, to the east, a howl signalled a sighting of the creature. Chris and Peter started into the direction of the sound, ready to fight, when another wolf answered the call, much closer to them than the first.

“It’s moving right towards us,” Peter concluded, and Chris was about to thank him for stating the obvious when Peter shifted and, without warning, charged ahead into the underbrush.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Chris cursed under his breath, holstered one of his weapons and grabbed the crossbow, then took off after Peter’s fast retreating form. As it happened, the Chimera found Peter first, had slammed him into a tree and was ready to tear him limb from limb by the time Chris sprinted into the small clearing. Seeing Peter nearly unconscious on the floor, Chris made a split-second decision. He raised the Glock he still had in his left hand, emptying an entire clip into the creature’s side to distract it from its prey.

“Peter!!” he yelled over the shots. “Peter, get up! Get up, come on!” When the magazine was empty, Chris dropped the gun and raised the crossbow, aiming at the Chimera’s eyes when it turned and began to advance on him. From beyond the tree line, Chris heard the distinct voice of an Alpha, several long howls only a few seconds apart, getting louder. Scott had found them and was leading the pack to them — Chris only hoped they’d be quick enough about it.

One of his arrows hit its mark, sending the Chimera into a shrieking frenzy at the arrow impaling one of the lionhead’s eyes. The snakehead was dancing in the air above it, seemingly unable to make up its mind whether to eliminate Chris first or continue attacking Peter, who had managed to get back on his feet in the meantime. Seeing the Chimera advance on Chris, the wolf roared in fury and swiped his claws at its left hind leg, hoping to incapacitate it. As it was, the attempt only made it angry, but distracted it enough for Chris to land another arrow — in the snakehead’s left eye, this time. Another shriek from the creature nearly had his eardrums bursting, but then a wave of relief washed over him as the rest of the pack crashed through the woods. The wolves immediately joined Peter in attacking, targeting the creature’s legs and everything that was covered only in fur, not scales. Allison dropped to one knee next to Chris, already aiming an arrow at the head that looked like a goat; Kira next to her letting loose an impressive set of throwing knives. Last, but definitely not least, Stiles, Deaton, and Marin skidded to a halt to Chris’ left, with Stiles looking equal parts terrified and determined enough that, for a moment, Chris believed him capable of absolutely anything.

As Stiles then set out to prove, he absolutely was.

As soon as the Chimera had been banished back to whence it came, no-one had the breath or the energy to let out so much as a whoop of joy. Several of the younger wolves merely dropped to the ground, panting or clutching injured body parts. Stiles, exhausted, had to be held up by the Morrell siblings. Chris didn’t have to look to know that Derek stumbled his way towards him on a broken leg, urgency and dread rolling off of him in bursts. Chris felt a hand on his elbow, so he turned towards Allison and kissed her forehead, nodding to her before she and Kira ran towards Scott. For a second, Chris stood, undecided, before he simply let go and let his legs steer him towards where Peter had staggered onto a tree trunk, holding the back of his head.

“Hey,” Chris breathed when he crouched down next to him, laying his crossbow on the grass. “Gave you a proper thump on the head, huh?”

Peter nodded gingerly, then winced. “Yeah, that snake for a tail is really agile.”

Chris leaned forward and raised his right hand, bracing the other on Peter’s knee. “Let me see. Is it still bleeding?”

“No, don’t think so.” Peter lowered his hand so Chris could brush a hand through his hair, feeling for signs of fractured bone or an open wound. The werewolf hissed when he brushed a sizeable lump on the right side, but Chris could feel the swelling go down already.

“Werewolf healing, you’ll be fine,” he murmured, letting his hand slide down until his fingers were splayed over the back of Peter’s neck. “But you might still be concussed, so we’ll have to keep an eye on that headache.”

“We?” Peter’s tone was already back to playful, and Chris felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, yeah. Now’s my chance to get revenge for all those times you nagged me into bandaging myself up _properly_.”

“Only looking out for my favourite hunter,” Peter shrugged with a grin, then trailed off into a pained groan. “Yeah. No laughing, got it,” he groused at himself through gritted teeth, lowering his head. Chris actually smiled, then, and brushed his thumb over Peter’s skin.

“Come on, let’s get the sad lot of you back to the house.”

They had managed to finish the rebuilding in between the rogue hunters, the witches, the fairies, and the Chimera emerging, so now they were all spilling out from between the trees, into the house, in various degrees of healing and still mildly injured. In the end, they decided against disturbing Melissa this late at night, and patched themselves up as best they could, knowing they would be fine come morning. Chris juggled his car keys for a minute while he hovered near Lydia and Peter, the young woman checking Peter’s pupils with a pen light.

“He’ll be fine,” she announced after a minute of making Peter follow her index finger with his eyes (and enjoying herself thoroughly at the exercise). “Someone should probably keep an eye on him, though, just in case a whack on the head like that sets loose his homicidal tendencies again,” she quipped, giving Peter a sweet smile when he grimaced at her.

“I was clinically insane!” the currently-not-dead werewolf defended himself, but Lydia merely raised an eyebrow and left to help Stiles and Deaton with Derek’s mangled leg. Peter then looked up and saw the keys still dangling from Chris’ hand. “You’re not leaving, are you?” he asked, and the blow to the head must be affecting the man, because Chris hadn’t actually believed Peter capable of puppy eyes. And yet, here he was.

“No,” he said quickly, looking at the keys as if he’d forgotten where they’d come from. “I’ll give them to Allison, in case she… I’ll see if she needs them,” he finished, quickly moving across the room to his daughter, not waiting for Peter’s reaction. Allison took his keys with a look of bewilderment, but then her eyes flickered between her father and Peter, who Chris was pretty sure was watching them, and then she smiled.

“Let me know if you need the car tomorrow. I’m taking Scott home, he wants to meet with his dad tomorrow.”

“OK. Is his arm healing well?”

“Yeah, thanks to the boost being the Alpha gives him, he’ll be right as rain, his dad won’t even know.”

“Good.” When he didn’t move, Allison gave him a sheepish look.

“What?”

She smiled. “Go on, take care of Peter.”

His eyes snapped to hers, and she shrugged, still smiling. “A pack knows these things.”

Chris shook his head, uncertain whether he should be irritated at his private business being written on the wall for his pack to see, or whether he should just be glad that Allison seemed to be fine with… whatever was happening between him and Peter.

Knowing not to push for answers, he simply leaned down and brushed a kiss against her temple before turning back towards Peter, who now had his head resting against the back of the sofa against the far wall, his eyes closed, a small smirk on his lips. At Chris’ return, he cracked one eye open and grinned.

“Come to sing me a lullaby?”

Wordlessly, Chris let himself drop on the couch next to him. “No sleep for concussed werewolves, at least not until your headache is gone.”

“Fine. You’ll have to entertain me, then,” Peter replied as he turned in his seat, throwing his legs over Chris’ lap and lying back against the high armrest, folding one arm under his head and letting the other rest on his stomach, painting a much too relaxed picture for a wolf who’d just battled a Chimera. Chris huffed, but then let the arms he’d raised in surprise fall and dropped his hands on Peter’s knees and shin, holding on.

The pack kept on bustling around them for a while, and then one by one they said good night as the hunter and the wolf stayed on the sofa, talking until the early hours of the morning, when Chris allowed Peter to go to sleep and then soon dozed off himself.

_Who come from long lines of skippers_  
 _Whose duty was fulfilled_  
 _In the words of a warrior's will_  
 _And protocol_

One night, after a pack meeting, Chris found himself on the back porch again, watching the sky gather itself into storm clouds after a sunny day. The Hale-McCall pack would be celebrating its two year milestone soon, with the kids getting ready for their first year of college, and the Hale house standing tall and proud above Beacon Hills, a clear sign to all that passed that this town was thriving under the pack’s protection, and that its territory was off-limits. He felt a presence behind him, and he knew it was Peter without having to turn. They had been dancing around each other for as long as they’d been pack, now, and Chris was all too aware that someday, sometime, something had to give. So when Peter stepped up to him, close enough for his chest to brush Chris’ back when he breathed in, and when Chris heard the tell-tale sound of a deep breath, of a werewolf scenting, he smiled.

“You smell content,” Peter murmured softly into his ear, and Chris didn’t think to hide the shiver that went down his spine. Slowly, he turned, finding himself nearly nose to nose with the wolf.

“That would be because I am,” he replied, then closed the gap between them and claimed Peter’s lips with his. They kissed slowly and chastely at first, until Peter’s hand found its way into Chris’ hair and he tugged, so Chris wrapped his arms around him to reel him in. Peter moaned when he was flush against Chris, and when his lips parted, Chris chased his breath with his tongue, only to groan when Peter met him halfway.

“There’s a joke in there about old wars and protocol,” Peter said when they broke apart briefly for air. Chris let out a soft snort and kissed him again, slowly walking them backwards until Peter’s back was up against the wall of the house and Chris could press a leg between his thighs and _oh God_. Peter ground down against him and Chris knew they’d have to stop, the pack was still home and a storm was coming, but just a few more kisses, a few more…

Finally, he pulled away and kissed a line down Peter’s jaw, down the side of his neck, enjoying the sensation of the wolf’s racing pulse beneath his mouth. “There’s no honour in waging war, only in protecting those you love.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing, I get nothing.
> 
> Please let me know what you think, I'd love your input!


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